The Rogue's Return (28 page)

They did. The bread was stale and they'd run out of butter days ago. The jam was still good, however, and it was nourishment.

Oglethorpe returned, drenched. “Close in to England, but not too close, the sailors think. Stoddard knows his business. We'll ride this out.”

Jancy studied him, trying to decide how much was true, how much false reassurance. There was no way to tell.

Simon rose. “I'm going to see.”

Jancy grabbed him. “You'll get half-drowned for no reason!”

“I have dry clothing.”

She could see from his brilliant eyes that he longed to be out in the storm, not cowering in here.

He raised his brows at her. “You're not going to be the sort of wife who wants to keep her husband in leading strings, are you?”

She had to say, “No,” and watch him go. Only then did she remember that his life might be in danger from more than a storm.

She looked around frantically. The colonel had gone with his wife. Dacre was here. Shore wasn't, but he'd surely be in his bed. No danger, then—unless the threat
came from one of the crew. Someone needed to be out there to protect Simon!

Hal. But in the storm, his one arm was a serious handicap. Oglethorpe had gone into Hal's cabin, presumably to change into dry clothes. Treadwell?

But in truth, she wanted to go out and drag Simon back in as he had her.

She finished the last of her bread and rose. She inched her way to the door, knowing someone would try to stop her if they suspected her plan. Rebecca came out then, distressed, which drew every eye. Jancy seized the moment to open the door and dash out.

The wind almost swept her away. She grabbed a handhold for dear life. Was she mad? Was Simon? But then the wind slackened here, at least, beneath the poop deck. She fought the door closed and clung to her grip.

Rain and sea spray lashed the deck, and when they hit her they were whips of ice. A surly band of light told of dawn struggling to push up leaden clouds, but she saw only dark chaos around except where three turbulent lanterns cast hellish glimpses on forms and faces.

Where was Simon?

She wanted to scream his name, but the wind would carry it away. The captain's bellows and the piercing whistles used to send commands could hardly be heard above wind, waves, and shrieking ship. She realized the sails were rolled up, stealing the gale's power to hurtle them onto rocks, at least. But there were men up in the rigging. How did they do it?

Ropes were strung around the deck like low washing lines. The sailors held on to them as they moved about, so they wouldn't be swept overboard. No matter how much she wanted to search for Simon, she couldn't do the same. Her strength wasn't up to holding on against a mighty wave. She was useless out here. She could only watch, trying to make sense of chaos, trying to prepare to act if she saw the chance.

 

Simon clung to one of the ropes lashed around the mainmast, being careful to keep out of the way of the sailors, laughing at himself but loving every moment of the storm. The air flared with wild energy and even the icy waves that slammed across the deck were glorious.

This was like riding the wildest horse.

Like the wicked elation of battle.

Like sex.

Perhaps that was what was wrong with him. Pure frustration.

Dawn was breaking but not clarifying the mayhem around him. Instead it turned black to confusing gray. But then he saw Jane. He was sure he had to be mistaken, but he focused again. It was. Her eyes met his with wild relief and she let go with one hand to wave at him.

Damned idiot!

He grabbed one of the lines and staggered toward her, working from rope to rope.

Until one snapped.

It broke under his weight just as a wave hit him, so he was helpless, swept like a ball on a chain to slam into something. Pain blinded him for a moment, but he was intensely grateful that it was his back, not his side.

He heard Jancy scream his name. Then the ship leaned in the other direction and he began to slide. Let go of the rope to try for another? He was whipping toward the mast when a hand grabbed his wrist.

He looked up into Dacre's grimacing face. The man had his other arm hooked over the bolted-down bench, so Simon surrendered to him and was hauled to safety.

Clutching the bench for himself, he laughed. “Another madman, I see!”

“Not at all,” Dacre yelled at him. “Your wife came out after you, and mine asked me to follow. But you, sir,
are
a damned madman!”

Simon tried to sober. “I apologize for endangering you.”

“Aye, well, you're a bit of a pair, aren't you, you and Jane?”

Simon laughed again. “Yes. Yes, we are. Let's return together to safety.”

They worked their way down a rope to the cuddy door.

“What the devil are
you
doing out here?” he shouted at Jane, but he was grinning.

“What the devil are
you
doing out here?” she yelled back, furious.

“Enjoying myself.”

She suddenly smiled. “Me, too.”

Dacre gave their laughter a disgusted look and fought the door to get inside.

They laughed even harder. It had to be the brush with death, but clinging to the ship for dear life, they kissed with hungry, burning lips that didn't part even when a wave drenched them. They only gasped into each other as it drove them together and kissed and kissed and kissed.

Then they stood together, stuck by wet clothing and the pressure of the wind, freezing and burning at the same time.

“We should go in,” she said into his ear.

“I know. We could freeze to death here.”

“Pneumonia.”

“Yes.”

They still didn't move, but then Jane pushed at him a bit. “When you hit, did you hurt yourself again?”

“I'll have a hell of a bruise, but no.”

The separation, slight though it was, let in sanity. “Come on.” As he put his hand on the door latch, he said, “There's one thing. We can cross Dacre off the villain list.”

W
ith dawn the storm eased, so that by daylight the Channel was merely its choppy self. The
Eweretta
and her captain had proved their worth. The sails were loosed again and they were soon making good speed up the Channel.

Kirkby lit the cabin stove and while it heated, two sailors mopped up the water. The galley must have been working again, too, for soon tea and bowls of porridge appeared for anyone who wanted them. The
Eweretta
was back in order.

Hal and Simon both lectured Jancy on going out in the storm, but she knew Simon didn't truly regret it. Who could ever regret such a moment, such a kiss? If only he didn't have his family and his responsibilities perhaps they could head off to adventures where her identity didn't matter, seasickness be damned.

After breakfast everyone went on deck to inspect the damage and feast their eyes on the clearly visible shore of England. The captain strolled about the deck like a conquering hero, accepting the congratulations of his passengers and graciously passing off some of the glory to his crew.

But he paused by Simon. “Mr. St. Bride, as you may realize, we have overshot Plymouth and I cannot put back. I can offer you a landing at Poole, however, for I will stop there for Reverend Shore.”

“Poole will suit us just as well, Captain. When will we arrive?”

“This evening, all being well. See,” he said, pointing, “there is Portland Bill behind us, and Swanage Bay not far ahead.”

Simon looked at Jancy. “Home, at last.” His eyes sent a special message about baths and bed. “We'd best look to our preparations.”

In their cabin, Jancy opened the chest to find the string in place. “I must have imagined the problem. I'm sorry.”

“Why think that? The storm provided no opportunity for a villain.”

“I suppose not, but the only possibility was Dacre, and see, he's a hero instead.”

“I'm happier to have it so.”

She smiled. “As am I.”

Sailors brought their baggage and they began to pack. Jancy felt she should separate her possessions from Simon's in preparation for their parting, but didn't see how.

“I said we'd contact the Dacres when we pause in London,” he said. “Assuming the
Eweretta
arrives by then.”

Jancy handed him a pile of underwear. “Why should we? Pause in London, I mean.”

“I have friends who will probably be there. Stephen Ball, for one. He'll know what I should do with the papers. I'm keen to pass that whole business on to others.”

Friends,
she thought. Support for him. She, however, would be alone in the world.

Once they were ready, they went on deck, where most of their fellow passengers were scanning green headlands atop brown cliffs, announcing glimpses of village spires. Each bay had its cluster of fishermen's cottages, and the Channel bobbed with their boats, which often hailed the
Eweretta,
home safe from the storm. Farther away other
great ships drove along under the power of bellied sails, but a few limped brokenly toward safety and repair.

“I suppose some were wrecked,” Jancy said to Simon as they watched the shore draw close. It looked so unthreatening now.

“Alas, yes, but more likely behind us on the coast of Cornwall or Devon. That's the ships' graveyard.”

“A boat's coming,” she said.

“A pilot. It must be a tricky harbor.” He turned to smile at her. “It is so very good to be home.”

He saw no shadows ahead and she wanted more than anything in the world to shield him from them. Instead he faced not only her confession, but also the news about the earldom of Marlowe. There was hope there, at least. It might only be rumor, or the heir might have made a miraculous recovery.

“We'll be only forty miles or so from Long Chart,” he continued. “We could reach there tomorrow, but if you want to rest in Poole for a day or two, we will. Then on to Brideswell.”

She had to act as if all this would involve her.

“What of London, then?” she asked.

“All roads lead to London, remember? It's the only sensible route.”

“And we'll pause to deal with your papers.” This might be the last opportunity to learn Simon's mind on that, so she took it. “What do you think will happen? About the Indians. Do you think they'll ever have a territory of their own?”

“I'm an optimist by nature, but no. We let that chance slip in the peace negotiations. The Americans will never agree to it now. And anyway, one nation wouldn't suffice. The Indians are as diverse as the whole of Europe, perhaps as the world. Some tribes are primitive, but some are highly cultured. Some need forests, some seas, some fertile valleys or plains of buffalo. There are even some who inhabit by choice the icy wastes of the north.”

“Then what do you hope for?”

“Apart from miracles, simple justice. When we buy their lands, we should pay a fair price. When we make promises, we should keep them. And those who murder them should receive the same treatment as those who murder us.”

“But you'll leave this to others now?”

“My place is here, in England, and I confess I'm too much of a St. Bride to throw my life away on a lost cause.”

“You almost did,” she pointed out.

“I had a purpose there, but if it was foolish, blame it on the hair.”

“On the blood of Black Ademar and Hereward the Wake.”

He obviously thought her comment strange but said, “Precisely.”

Jancy considered the tranquil shore. “I suppose we're not far from where the invading Normans landed and swept away the Anglo-Saxon culture. Was that such a terrible thing? You say Hereward made his peace with the Normans, and we have peace and prosperity now.”

“Time buries the bones.”

She turned to look at him. “So what will you fight for now?”

“For justice for my own people. Fair wages. Education. Wresting voting power out of the hands of the few and into the hands of the many.”

“A noble battle, but can it be won?”

“I believe so, yes. The changes are already happening.” He smiled into her eyes. “And with you by my side, I can never fail.”

She turned away, afraid of showing her agony, and they watched the careful negotiation of the
Eweretta
through the narrow opening that allowed the only access to the almost-landlocked Poole Harbor. Jancy sighed. If only . . .

She pulled away from dreams to reality. “How strange
to be surrounded by land after so many weeks in limitless ocean.”

Simon put his arms around her from behind. “Embraced.”

She covered his gloved hands with hers, savoring every last moment.

The pilot left, but port officials came aboard to deal with formalities to do with passengers and cargo. Jancy felt a tremor as Simon produced his passport, but no one could dispute that she was Jane St. Bride, his wife. Sailors were hauling up their chests and crates from the hold. Simon and Hal went to observe, checking off lists.

Jancy returned to their cabin to make sure nothing had been forgotten. For all the problems, she thought, touching the bottom bed, there had been some precious moments here. She returned to the cuddy to find Norton there. He was carrying on to London with Gore's papers.

“This will be farewell, Captain,” she said, holding out a hand.

He took it and, to her surprise, kissed it. “It's been a pleasure to travel with you, Jane St. Bride. Perhaps in parting, you could call me Noll? For Oliver?”

Jancy pulled her hand free and smiled vaguely. The last thing she needed now was some man flirting with her, but he was Simon's friend.

“Perhaps we'll meet again in London, Captain.”

“I hope for it. But winds being as they are in the Channel, you could be at Brideswell before we reach Greenwich. You do not plan to go north to your home?”

“No. As I said, I no longer have family there.”

“But friends and neighbors, surely?”

“Very few. I must go, Captain.”

On deck, she found their possessions were already being lowered into boats to be taken ashore. Time for farewells. The Grand Panjandrum herself was gracious in a haughty manner.

“When your husband brings you to London, we must
take tea, Mrs. St. Bride.” Jancy was sure it was only her own mind that supplied,
And I hope you are more suitably dressed by then, you lowborn creature.

The colonel made a similar comment, but more warmly. He complained, however, that Captain Stoddard would not permit them to spend the night on shore.

“Says he needs to catch an early tide tomorrow and he won't have his passengers wandering. But at least he's bringing fresh supplies aboard, and the sooner we reach London the better.”

Rebecca Dacre cried as she said good-bye, and her husband seemed sincerely sorry to see them leave. “Perhaps we will see you again in London,” he said. “And I know my family and friends in Cumberland will be interested to know that I traveled with the cousin of the artistic Miss Otterburn.”

Once that would have terrified Jancy, but now it was toothless.

She was let down into the boat in the swaying bosun's chair, as was Reverend Shore. Hal was, too, which he must have hated. Simon and the two servants used the ladder. They all waved as they were rowed to shore.

As the sun began to set, everyone and everything arrived on terra firma in the small town of Poole—even if terra firma was heaving like the sea.

Jancy clutched Simon. “I don't remember this from last time.”

“You were weak and ill. Peculiar, isn't it? Come on, I gather the Antelope has rooms.”

She thought they must look like drunks as they staggered their way to the Antelope, a solid old inn fronting the harbor, but they were received cheerfully. Soon she was approving a pleasant room, thinking sadly that it fit their shipboard dream.

It wasn't large, and the diamond-paned window was only a few feet in either dimension, but that looked out on a garden and let in warm evening light. The walls were bright and clean, and the high tester bed had
curtains and coverlet the color of bluebells. The sheets were freshly laundered, but above all, the room was still, quiet, and free of the stink of the ship.

She held her hands out to the fire, amazed at how wondrous such a simple thing seemed after so long without it.

A maidservant had guided her here and asked, “Do you require anything, ma'am?”

A bath. A real bath.

Jancy was ready to rush around boiling kettles herself, but she'd promised herself that she'd tell Simon at the first opportunity. That meant now, so she thanked the maid and sent her away.

Where was he? She wanted to get this over with, but he'd stayed downstairs to discuss something with Hal. Transportation to Long Chart, she supposed.

She roamed the room, wanting it over. But also wanting to never tell him—to carry on to Long Chart, London, and Brideswell and defy fate one more time.

She began to pray.

It wasn't my fault, Lord, that I was forced to live a lie as a child. It wasn't my fault that my father sinned with my mother. It's not my fault that I'm a contaminated Haskett!

She moved on to bargaining.

Please help me have a second chance. I promise never to lie again. I'll be the best wife in the world, the best daughter to his parents, sister to his sisters and brothers, aunt to his nephews and nieces. I will shape my life to make him happy. To make them all happy. I ask nothing for myself except the chance. That he understand and forgive—

Simon came in. “Dinner's ready.”

She turned to him. She had to
eat
?

“You can't be
land
-sick, can you?” he asked. The impatient tone had her hastily going with him. Her prayers certainly hadn't helped. Why should they? They were purely selfish.

Dear God, turn everything to the best for Simon.

They dined in a private parlor with Hal, and Jancy even ate a little for Simon's sake. The food was delicious after the ship's rations, especially the limited ones of the past weeks. Baked perch. Plump roast turkey breast. A Florentine of kidneys. Fresh vegetables—cabbage, cauliflower, and spinach.

When the innkeeper presented a platter of pears, plums, and plump grapes, Simon said, “Fresh fruit. I see you know the ways of arriving passengers.”

The man bowed and smiled. “Indeed I do, sir. Indeed I do.”

When the meal ended, Simon rose.

Now.

But he smiled at her. “Why don't we take a walk and shake off the sea? After such a confined world, we now have miles.”

An evening stroll. She could not deny herself that everyday pleasure. Just once.

But darkness was falling and the wind was cold. When they were hit with spots with rain, they hurried back to the inn. As they climbed the stairs to their room, Jancy's heart started to pound and her throat stuck with dryness. This was like facing an amputation. As they entered the cozy room, she wondered if she'd be able to force out words.